Seven Hours to Midnight

from here, it’s impossible to imagine the
sounds of good news, faint like
someone else’s memories, a
divine frontier of things left unsaid at
seven hours to midnight, the
moon all dressed in red
the distant glow of sea colors or a
song for somebody who matters

now, i don’t know about you but
i’m tired of living in fear of fear
this culture of crisis and engineered fright
the hollowed out faces of
seven hours to midnight
make everyday an empty threat
media mayhem
invisible like a faraway train or the
specter of an oncoming virus
shifting and irregular

no face, no
one to chase when
no beginning’s the right one—
the sky is a broken ceiling and
every story’s a cautionary tale—a
journalist with an authoritative necktie
racing to keep pace with his
own delusions, a
message of doom that
drives us all underground like a
secret highway, drinking from the
mouth of an empty cup

(and sanity is often the result of
knowing what to ignore), a
black widow in plain sight
at seven hours to midnight, he
straightens his lapel and
steadies his hands at the mic